WARNING: Although I feel like the phrase "birth story" should serve as a warning that there's some serious TMI ahead [after all, is birth ever really pretty? No. It's pretty much always a little bit gross], I'm going to do the standard warning anyway. I realize only soon-to-be mothers, recent mothers, and birth story junkies care about the nitty gritty details. This is for them. If you're not into knowing that much about someone else's bodily functions or the details of contractions, effacement, and all that jazz, I'd suggest you skip this post altogether or just go straight to the pictures. It's gonna be long, y'all... and maybe a wee bit gory.

Let the story begin...

Dou Me, Baby

First, let me go way back. When I had Pop Culture Toddler, I enlisted the services of a doula for both during and after labor. Rhonda was invaluable. So I knew as soon as I got pregnant with Pop Culture Baby that I was going to go the doula route again. Rhonda had since retired from the baby doula game. I knew her daughter had stepped into her place, since one of my friends used Rhonda's daughter as her postpartum doula for her twins. I could have used her daughter. Instead, I decided to go the difficult route and get an out-of-state doula. Now, this wasn't something completely on a whim. Christi (or Diva Doula, as I now feel like calling her) is one of the moms from one of my WTE expecting boards. Her youngest daughter was born within days of PCT. She was even our board leader at some point and is currently one of the admins of our Facebook group. So while I didn't "know" her, I have known her for over three years. She had already served as the doula for some of the other November 2008 moms, and I wanted Diva Doula to "dou" me, too. As you can expect, Pop Culture Dad and pretty much everyone else thought I was crazy. But with Pop Culture Toddler, my midwives had predicted when I would go into labor, down to the weekend, and with a 13-hour labor the first time, I was feeling pretty confident about being able to get Diva Doula here in time.

Then of course came the GD diagnosis. Because I ended up on medication to control my blood sugar, my midwives told me that if I didn't have Pop Culture Baby early, as I did PCT, they were going to induce me at 39 weeks. Everyone, myself included was fairly confident, though, that I would go early again. Boy were we wrong. Apparently I controlled my sugars almost too well. So instead of growing a behemoth baby and ginormous placenta, I was forming a fairly regular placenta and (what was to me, anyway), a teeny baby. At my Level 2 ultrasound, PCB was measuring a few weeks behind, and was 18th percentile. PCB was predicted to be six pounds if I went full term. Because of the gestational diabetes, I had ultrasounds every three weeks. While my fundal height was always perfectly on track, the ultrasounds always showed a baby that was measuring a couple of weeks behind. Kind of weird considering that our 3D ultrasound revealed really chubby cheeks. *shrug*. So week by week, my confidence going into labor at 38 weeks again began to wane. And then...

Long Labor? False Labor? WTH Knows?

Ten days before my due date, I started having really regular contractions. They were frequent enough that I started timing them. First they were far apart. Then as the day went on, they sped up to 10 minutes apart, and then 8. I e-mailed Diva Doula and asked her for reassurance that I could have contractions 8 minutes apart for a number of days. Based on the ultrasound I had just the week before, PCB was still measuring small, though better than before (now 25th percentile), but PCB was just small enough that I wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of going into labor early and having a teeny tiny little baby. Diva Doula told me to lie down on my left side for an hour or so, drink a lot of water and see if my contractions slowed down or stopped. They didn't. Then she told me to just say the word, and she would get on a plane; her hubby was getting ready to get her on a plane. We talked it through for a while and decided, just in case, to get her on a plane. If she was here for a couple of days, that was fine. Better than her missing the birth altogether.

Diva Doula came in, and I continued to have contractions. Then, at some point right before I went to bed, they disappeared, only to come back with a royal vengeance while I was sleeping. I was afraid I would go into labor in the wee hours of the morning; but at least Pop Culture Dad and Diva Doula were there. The next morning, I told Pop Culture Dad to go on to work, and I would call him if he needed to come home. By then, I had steady contractions 5 minutes apart. He later told me that he got ribbed all day for being at work while his wife was in labor. During the day, Diva Doula and I tried to help the labor along. We went geocaching. We drove around. We walked. At one point when we were walking around my neighborhood, the contractions got so bad I had trouble walking. We were actually getting close to the point where my midwives told me to call them back. But I didn't feel like I should go to the hospital yet. So we went back to the house where I decided to go relax in the tub... and the contractions disappeared again. WTH? Same pattern as the night before, my contractions got frequent, horrible and painful in the middle of the night, but no magic happened.

The next day was my midwife appointment. The midwife with whom we met, Mary, thought it was weird that I had contractions that steady and close that got stronger and then went nowhere, but it wasn't unheard of. She checked me, and it turned out I hadn't made any progress from the week before. I was still a fingertip dilated and about 60% effaced. So I basically had two days of contractions for nothing. At this point, I was days away from being 39 weeks. It was time to talk induction dates. Mary told me point-blank that, two days of false labor notwithstanding, Pop Culture Baby was not ready to go anywhere. An induction date at the early end of 39 weeks would not be a good idea. I began to get fearful that an induction date at any time would not be a good idea. But seeing as I only had a one week window in which to give birth (gee, thanks, GD), I picked my due date as my induction date. Might as well make it to 40 weeks, right? Mary agreed to give me Prepadil the next week to see if that helped move things along so I could avoid induction. It was a great start, but still pretty sucky. I went back to my car and cried. Hard. Diva Doula was such awesome support (a necessity when you feel like a complete tool, like I did). We went walking and geocaching some more, in hope of sparking more labor. Nada. That day, I decided the GD diet was off. Let me tell you, I really enjoyed my comfort-Frosty that day.

Diva Doula went home the next morning, and I went to the hospital for my Prepadil. Mary told me to go walking (preferably around a mall with a credit card) to see if I could get some contractions going. Nada. When I went in a few days later for my midwife appointment [now after a full week and a couple days of "false" labor, which felt pretty damn real], I was ready to tell them not to induce me at all. I was really afraid of being one of those ladies who has a horrible induction experience and ends up either having an awful, long labor or winding up getting a c-section. I had another ultrasound. Pop Culture Baby had a growth spurt, and was suddenly estimated at 50th percentile. Dawn, the midwife that day, checked me again. I had made a wee bit of progress, but not much. In fact, I had gone from 60% effaced to 50% effaced. WTF?? Dawn, however, was convinced that I was ready, and that an induction would go beautifully. As some added insurance, though, Dawn stripped my membranes and scheduled me for another Prepadil the next day. She warned me that the stripping may do nothing, or it could send me into labor. You just never know. Later that day, I was in the grocery store, having the worst contractions to date. I actually felt pretty good about going into labor. I had bloody show that night. The next morning, I ended up calling my midwives at 4 a.m. to see if I should even go in for the second dose of Prepadil, because I was having contractions 6 minutes apart. I was told that even if I ended up not going into labor, they could not administer Prepadil with my contractions that close together. So, basically, I just had to wait and see if I went into labor. This should be no surprise: I didn't.

Eviction Day

Diva Doula came back the next day. We basically snacked on labor cookies and got together snacks and everything I needed to go to the hospital. Diva Doula also taught Pop Culture Dad various pressure points and techniques to help me during labor. We talked about how my labor went with PCT, and for the first time ever, I realized that (save for my water breaking on its own), that I had made zero progress until I was given the dreaded pitocin monster. It was possible that I'm one of those unlucky ladies who will contract for days and days without any real progress, absent medical intervention.

The next day was eviction day. And, I won't lie: I was terrified. I had always planned on having a completely natural birth. Now, after more than a week of false labor, I knew I was going to get stuck with pitocin whether I liked it or not. And, let's face it, my confidence in my own ability to face pitocin without an epidural was very very low. I was also terrified, after having such a long period of unproductive labor, that I was going to end up either in labor for 24 hours or with a c-section... or worse, both.

My induction was scheduled for 7 a.m. on the 29th. Pop Culture Dad, Diva Doula and I left the house at the buttcrack of dawn and started heading (late) to the hospital, only to get a call as we were getting on the freeway that there were no beds available, so I'd have to call back in a few hours to see if I could come in. They ended up telling me to come to the hospital between 11 and 11:30. We got there at 11ish and had to wait a while. They hooked me up to the pit drip around 1. When I went in, I was 3 cm dilated and about 50% effaced. Pop Culture Baby was at a -3 station. So, yeah, not even close to anything happening.

Leaving for the hospital... again

A few hours went by, and the contractions were getting worse, but it still looked like I had a long time to go. Pop Culture Dad and Diva Doula were fantastically helping me manage my pain and sneaking me food and drinks. At 5:30 or so, I posted a message to the impatient mommies on our parenting group that the "aunties" were going to have to simmer down, because Pop Culture Baby wasn't making an appearance any time soon. The ladies were all on gender watch and tired of not knowing what kind of equipment PCB was bearing. Around 6 or 6:30 , my midwife checked me, and I was 100% effaced, but still only about 3 cm (but this time a "loose" 3 instead of a hard one) and at a -1. She asked if I wanted to have my water broken. We debated it for a while, especially the warning about how much it would suck. Eventually, in the interest of not being in labor all freaking night, I told her to go for it. Almost immediately after she broke my water, things really kicked into gear [shit got real, y'all!].

At some point around 7 p.m., I was just done. Diva Doula and PCD were absolutely fantastic, but I knew I had barely made any progress before all of the madness started, and I couldn't imagine being like that another four hours or whatever. So I started asking my midwife if it was too late to get an epi. She said "probably," and she and Diva Doula kept encouraging me to keep on, at least for a while. **WARNING WARNING HERE COMES THE TMI/YOU'LL-KNOW-TOO-MUCH-ABOUT-ME STUFF. LOOK AWAY NOW IF YOU REALLY DON'T WANT TO KNOW EVERYTHING** Then I had that "I need to poop" feeling -- not the "I feel like I need to poop, but it's really the baby pushing down" feeling -- a true, honest to goodness "guess I'm not backed up anymore" feeling. My midwife wanted to check me first to make sure I wasn't crowning, since "babies like to be born on toilets." I wasn't. I don't really remember this part at all, but Diva Doula informed me later that when my midwife checked me, I was 6 cm dilated. So I had made some progress, but I still had 4 freaking cm to go. I shuffled off to the restroom, only to find out once I got there that with the crazy contractions, I had trouble sitting down (and staying down) on my own. Pop Culture Dad and Diva Doula rushed in to help me. I "went," and then, all of the sudden, my ass was burning. Like, seriously burning. And I started thinking I was in that episode of "Bobby & Whitney" where Bobby had to help Whitney get out the stuck poop [hey, I warned you this would be TMI. If you're grossed out, your fault for not heeding my warnings]. So I'm complaining -- crying -- about my ass being broken, and my midwife, Debbie, checks me and says something like, "You know why? Cuz there's a head right there." Yeah, seriously. Classic. Debbie then flew into hyper mode and starts telling Pop Culture Dad and Diva Doula to hurry up and get me back to the bed before the baby falls out, and she's yelilng at the nurses to hurry up and get a table. I didn't want to move. I didn't have a choice. They carted me off to the bed, and got me back on it in a matter of seconds. Pretty much as soon as they got me on the bed (all of 10 seconds), I started pushing. Four big pushes in about 5 minutes or less, and Pop Culture Baby came sliding on out at 7:18 p.m.. As Diva Doula pointed out later, I went from 6 cm to 10 cm with a baby in my arms in less than 20 minutes -- that is intense. No tearing this time, either.

Thanks, Debbie!

Honestly, I had absolutely no idea what was going on at this point. Diva Doula had to fill me in on some of the finer details later. After PCB popped out (literally), Debbie held her up so we could see the gender. Even looking, I had no idea [I swear I know what the parts look like!]. I think I was just still surprised there was a baby there. I still didn't know if I had a son or a daughter until Pop Culture Dad announced, "It's a girl!". I vaguely remember saying at some point after my eyes focused and I noticed that there was in fact a baby there, "Oh! And she has some color! Yay!". I had another beautiful little girl. A 7 pound, 12 ounce, 20.5" little princess (who, other than her much smaller size, slightly darker skin and brown eyes, and fantastic dimples, is an exact replica of her big sister, who is a pretty close carbon copy of me).

One of the best parts came after we were released to my room. My mom and Pop Culture Toddler were already there waiting on us. When the nurse wheeled me in with Pop Culture Baby, PCT walked up to us and said, "Hi, [Baby]. I'm your big sister." Tears. Flowing.

Everybody Wants the Diva to Dou ThemI didn't go into a lot of details of how Diva Doula helped me before and during my labor. For one, it's hard to go into details after the fact. I just remember her there duing the labor, constantly moving and things to do to help out, and her encouraging me along the way. I vaguely remember the little pep talks. They're all fuzzy right now, but I remember at the time, they really helped get me through. To use one of her favorite phrases, Diva Doula (aka Mrs. Christi Mooney of Serenity Birth in GA) was just AWESOME SAUCE. There is absolutely no way I would have been able to do a pitocin-induced, pain medication-free birth without her support. And I probably would have lost my sanity before the main event, too. Remember pregnant ladies: Google is not your friend; but a good doula is.In fact, Diva Doula was such awesome sauce that the midwife on-call the morning after I gave birth told me how much Debbie had bragged about her, and they wanted to know what service she was with and how to refer her to other clients. You can imagine their disappointment when I told them she's not local. Thanks to Christi's dou-ing, my midwives all gave me the "Rockstar" award for the week.

Diva Doula and Pop Culture Baby

First day home with my girls

Pop Culture Laboring?

I am sure someone has to wonder if I had any media going on during labor, especially considering I once claimed (okay, okay, last year) I'd love to have "Bohemian Rhapsody" playing in the background when I gave birth. We did not have the iPod going. Darn shame, too, considering the short amount of time I spent pushing actually would have left us with a little "Bohemian Rhapsody" left over -- not that anyone would have had time to cue the song up! I actually did get to follow through with my media birth plan, though. We watched Knocked Up for the first two hours of the induction. And, as I had planned a couple of months before, we got our NPH fix. I packed a few DVDs of How I Met Your Mother, but while I was having my awful, water-breaking-induced contractions, we were watching (Ha! "Watching") Dr. Horrible's Sing-along Blog. Good thing we brought our portable DVD player. The L&D room only had VCRs. Oh, how I wish I was kidding!

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(Wow, for someone who claims to not be all gung ho on The Beatles, I sure have been taking liberties with their songs lately...)

Instead of continuing to rely on all of Brittney's fantastic posts about my baby sprinkle [If you don't know what I'm talking about, go to the PCM Facebook fan page], I decided to stop being lazy and actually write one myself. It's the very least I could do.

When Brittney first suggested throwing me a shower or sprinkle, I cried. I knew her motivations behind it. She knew my first one had sent me into tears (not of joy) and that this would be my last child. She didn't want that to be my only experience. In addition to the awesomeness of her wanting to throw a shower for me just to make me happy, I was also thrilled by the idea of seeing her again before our San Antonio trip in November. At the same time, though, the gesture was way too generous. I know she's on a tight budget, especially with our upcoming trips to San Antonio and Maine and her fourth baby on the way. Pop Culture Dad and I immediately started to feel guilty about the whole thing. "Tell her we can't let her do that," he said. And we did, but Brittney (and Andy) weren't having it.

Seeing Brittney's excitement over all the aspects of planning my sprinkle, I couldn't help but feel the guilt reside, even though it was most definitely still lingering a bit. Then, after Kat also started making plans to come out for the sprinkle, I couldn't contain my excitement anymore. Soon, it wasn't even so much about the sprinkle as it was seeing the two of them again.

Friday, the day I picked them up from the airport, I had already started having a bad morning. My grumpiness and sadness melted away as soon as I saw Kat sitting in baggage claim. Over the next day or so, I just enjoyed having them around as we bustled to get everything ready for the shower. It is unbelievable the amount of things Brittney was able to plan and do from Utah, and it is incredible the amount of things we (though, really, mostly Brittney and Kat, and to some extent Pop Culture Dad) were able to do in one day to get the house shower-ready.

On Sunday, everything went off without a hitch. My sprinkle was absolutely perfect. Even though Brittney hates baby shower games, she was able to find games that even she (and other women who I know to hate baby shower games) enjoyed. My GD dietician and nurse gave me a reprieve for the day, so that I was able to enjoy cake, cookies, punch and more. Lots of friends came out -- even Pop Culture Toddler had a friend show up. The decor was beautiful. Brittney went with a theme of green and white, and went all out. In fact, I have still left some of the decorations up, because everything was so elegant, that I can't bear to take it down. Also, as long as I can look at the gorgeous green and white centerpieces, it's almost like the sprinkle hasn't ended.

Taking Kat and Brittney home on Monday morning was bittersweet. I was happy they would be getting back to their dearly missed husbands and children, but I was also sad to see them go. You would think, considering how infrequently we actually see each other, it would be easy. But it's hard seeing people you love so much just fly away. We have been joking this week about how it will all be better when we just move to the same state and build our compound with three houses that share a backyard. If only.

Words can't even begin to express my gratitude for this great gift that Brittney and Kat gave me. I feel loved. I feel how much my baby is loved. I honestly don't know what I would do without my fantastic friends who dropped everything to fly thousands of miles, just to see a smile on my face; but I don't plan on ever finding out what I'd have to do without them.

Love you gals!

Yes, the centerpiece is still up in my house. I am not kidding.

A nice snack spread -- esp. for a woman on a one-day reprieve!

One of the games -- binkie spitting. It was a blast.

Pop Culture Toddler (r.) got to hang out with her best friend

I had my cake and *squee* got to eat it, too!

The ladies decorated bibs and onesies for Pop Culture Baby

This is the only picture of the three of us together the entire weekend. We were too busy just being (and cleaning and cooking and decorating) to remember to stop and take one. We will make up for it in November.

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Like any pregnant woman, even one who has no plans of confirming via ultrasound what gender my fetus actually is, I love entertaining myself with the old wives' tales. I did the Chinese Gender Prediction chart -- got both results, depending on which website was used. I did various online tests, which analyzed whether I only will eat the heel of bread or refuse it altogether [uh.. neither. Who cares that much??] or whether I liked orange juice or sweets vs. sour, where I'm allegedly carrying, etc... These, too, came back with mixed results. So while at the grocery store one day in my first trimester, I gave into temptation and plunked down $25 for an Intelligender Gender Prediction Test Kit.

I have no more faith in the Intelligender test than I do my wedding ring hanging from a string of my hair turning circles or going back and forth in a straight line [for the record, it did both]. I took the test solely for fun. In fact, despite its false claims of accuracy, it even says right on the box and in the instructions "for entertainment purposes only." Let's face it, there are only two options for a single baby: you're either having a boy or a girl. That's it [okay, okay, in some extremely rare cases, you get the kid who has both]. You could have the same "accuracy" as Intelligender as you would flipping a coin. Therefore, anyone who puts all of their faith into this thing is just wasting their time. The only mostly accurate way of telling your baby's gender before birth is via ultrasound -- and even those aren't 100% accurate [just ask my friend who was told "girl" at two different ultrasounds, who ended up returning all of the pink baby gear she was given after her little "girl" was born with a penis]. So, outside of an ultrasound, seems like any rational person would take it all with a grain of salt, right?

Wrong.

If you read the reviews on Amazon.com, people are irate about the fact that the test incorrectly predicted one gender (usually a boy) while their bouncing bundle of joy was another. C'mon people. What did you really expect? Did you think that peeing into a little cup would seriously predict the gender of your child to the same extent and accuracy as an ultrasound? And can you really be that angry if the result comes up "boy" most of the time, even for women who aren't even pregnant? Apparently, yes, yes they can.

There are people like "tielde," who writes in her one-star review: "I took one of these and it said it was a girl ... confirmation by 4 doctors - im high risk is a boy!! [sic] waste of money" and "crystal 'mommathaboss'": "i used the test n its not accurate at all.. im havin a girl n it said boy..i did it the right way n still the wrong result...waste of my money for sure... [sic x 100]". One one-star reviewer even stated that the "product should have some sort of disclaimer, or provide information on the test's accuracy so that shoppers can make a more informed decision on whether or not to buy this product." Oh! You mean like the one on the back of the box and in the instructions that says, "For entertainment purposes only"?? Yeah, they really need to make that more clear.

It's not just the one-star reviews that have taken this too seriously. There are several people who stated that since it was right for them, it was a fantastic product, it is totally accurate, and they'll use it for every pregnancy. One lady even went so far as to warn everyone that their false "boy" results were probably because they had sex within 48 hours of taking the test. Oh, I see... That's what went wrong.

Sigh...

This is an entertainment product. It should be used for entertainment purposes only. The reviews should be more about whether or not you had fun doing it. Personally, I had three-star fun -- fun and funny, but not exactly the highlight of my day. It told me I was having a boy, and to this day, I have no freaking idea (probably not, though). We'll know next month. Even if it turns out Pop Culture Baby is a boy, that won't change my fun from a three-star, "it was totally cute playing around and seeing what it said" into a five-star "OMG! This is awesome! Why ever wait for an ultrasound when you can just pee in a cup at home??" review. Likewise, if Pop Culture Baby is a girl, I'm not going to be so flaming mad that I have to write a one-star "OMG! Why do they even sell this on the market? It totally doesn't work!" review. It's all fun and games -- just like the Chinese Gender Prediction Tests that were all totally different. Any other reaction is, IMO, too much.

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Those of you who know me or who can decipher my cryptic Tweets already know this, but to catch up the rest of you: I failed my three-hour glucose tolerance test.

This actually wasn't a surprise. My mom and at least two (of her six) sisters are diabetic. After my well-woman exam a year or so ago, I was told when my blood work came back that I was pre-diabetic. Non-pregnant pre-diabetic numbers pretty much mirror pregnant diabetic numbers.

I think I was lulled into a false sense of security when my early one-hour glucose test (at 12 weeks) came back hypoglycemic. This time, however, the results were not. My blood sugar was 166. Their threshold is 135. I was convinced I had just miscalculated my breakfast — after all, a Jack-in-the-Box taco seemed like a good idea to outsmart the test at the time. But how much sugar is in that salsa, anyway? And was it really smart to eat in the parking garage before walking into my appointment?

So shortly before my three-hour glucose trust, I decided to start monitoring my blood sugar in the morning. The results were not good. The day before the test, my fasting blood sugar was 110. The morning of, it was 98. The number to pass is 95.

Defeated, I walked into my midwives' office — 12 hours starved and dehydrated — on a mission. I already knew I had GD. So I just had to show them my glucose monitor, go meet with some counselors, and then I could eat, right? Wrong.

First, I ended up stuck in the waiting room for over an hour. By hour 13 of no food or drink, I became a hormonal, depressed, sobbing mess. By the time the nurse called me back, my eyes were already blood shot and puffy, and I was sob-heaving like Pop Culture Toddler. I told her that my fasting that morning was over their threshold for GD, that I was hungry, dehydrated and dizzy, and that I just wanted them to declare me GD so I could go meet with a counselor and get something to eat and drink. The nurse went to talk with the midwives and left me in my waiting room.

Some time later, one of my midwives, Debbie, came in to talk to me. We talked for over an hour [14 hours, no food or drink]. The end result of all this hysterical (on my part) chatter was that even with the numbers from my trusty glucose monitor, they had to run official tests or (1) the counselors wouldn't talk to me, and (2) my insurance company would likely not reimburse a thing. Debbie was pretty sure based on my home test that I was going to fail, but it had to be done. The end result was that Debbie would allow me to stay in the exam room for my full test, and a woman from the lab would come to do my blood draws. It was a good thing they let me stay in the room, too. An hour or so [15 hours sans food or real drink] after I drank the torture device glucose drink, I threw up a little. Two hours in, standing or sitting up made me dizzy. In fact, when I walked out, I saw another poor preggo in the lobby who was taking her three-hour glucose test. She was passed out on the floor, and the staff was trying to get her into a wheel chair. Someone explain to me why they haven't invented a better way to test for Gestational Diabetes?

The day continued to get worse, but I'll spare you those details. I'll leave it at the fact that I felt pretty defeated (as well as dizzy, hungry and just generally discombobulated) for days after the test. Then Tuesday I got the dreaded call from Debbie: "Well.... You were right. You failed. Sorry." I was led to believe I had greatly flunked the test. Now I just had to wait for the diabetic counselors to call me.

Being the nerd I am, I immediately started searching Amazon for the highest rated gestational diabetes books available on Kindle. I downloaded a cookbook and another general book.

Today was my first meeting with my diabetic counselors. I was terrified. Turns out I didn't need to be.

But, first, let's discuss breakfast. The diabetic cookbook I downloaded contained a recipe for "buttermilk pancakes." Unlike any pancakes I'm used to, these included no eggs. Honestly, I have no reason why, since eggs aren't exactly full of sugar or carbs. I made them anyway. The only modification I made was to substitute 1/4 cup of the cup of flour required with wheat flour to make it a bit healthier. The result sort of looked like pancakes, but it tasted like fluffy matzo. Luckily, I actually like matzo crackers, so this wasn't a big deal -- just really surprising. I made a fruit compote with stevia sweetener and served it with egg whites scrambled with zucchini, spinach and squash. Here's the final result:

Fortunately, it tasted better than it looked.

Loaded up (but still kind of starving) on my healthy, diabetes-approved breakfast, I headed to meet with my counselors. Most interesting part of the morning? The receptionist at intake trying to pump me for free legal advice. Seriously?! Does she do that to everyone who walks in who has "attorney" listed as occupation, or do I just have one of those faces??

After that weirdness was behind me, I met first with the dietitian, Rita. We went through my typical, not-at-all-diabetes-approved diet and figured out what things should be cut, modified, and kept. Surprisingly, there weren't too many drastic changes. True, my glazed donut + kolache + milk breakfast has been 100% eliminated, and I have to stop drinking lemonade 24/7, but my favorite red beans & rice lunch gets to stay. Next I met with the the nurse, Angela. She actually gave me various ways to save some of my current cravings with a little foreign (to me) thing called portion control. Get to the point where I just have to have the taste of a glazed donut? Get a couple of donut holes. Want some ice cream, and not of the chock-full-o-splenda variety? Eat 1/4 cup of Blue Bell Homestyle Vanilla (yum!). But the best news I received from Angela today? My pal Brittney (aka BostonsMama) doesn't have to change a thing about the snacks she is planning for my baby shower; I am free to indulge that one day!

All in all, the appointment went really well. I found out that I hadn't failed the glucose test as badly as I was led to believe. In fact, I had passed the fasting and one-hour portion of the test. It was the rest of it that I failed miserably. The pointers I was given were very helpful and tailored to my lifestyle and preferences. I actually feel like I can do this!

I realize this journey will be hard. No one likes pricking their finger 10 times a day. No one wants to count carbs or forgo their favorite foods. But you know what else no one wants? To give birth to a 16-pound baby.

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For those of you who actually read and pay attention to all or most of my posts, I imagine a few of you may be thinking, “Well, it’s the end of June. Whatever happened to that April meetup with the other Mommy Bloggers? Ooh.. I bet it got cancelled or didn’t go well.” If there’s anyone who thinks this way, I really couldn’t blame you. In fact, I went to a party last week, and someone point blank asked me if this meetup had ever even happened. I didn’t blame him either. After all, it’s sort of weird if something goes well that it wouldn’t be discussed, right? Well, it went well, fabulous in fact. I’ve just been lazy in getting around to actually writing about it [compare this to Brittney’s three posts about it…]. And, honestly, I’ve been trying to figure out exactly how to word how I feel.

In a sense, I feel like I should have so much to say, because the weekend was so awesome that I should actually have to edit myself to keep the gushing and word count down. On the other hand, meeting up with two of my closest friends who I had never, prior to April 8th, seen in person, felt so natural and so normal, that it felt like any other day out of my life – only in a vacation setting. Honestly, once we got past the initial “crap, are we going to get along in person?” it was like I was just going on vacation with two of my best friends and their families, nothing more.

Without going into too much detail, we were all nervous about finally meeting even after we had all arrived in Phoenix. Turns out, we had nothing to worry about. Everyone got along pretty well. Of course, every now and then we had to resolve the occasional toddler dispute over toys or had trouble figuring out dinner plans for a group of 11 (well, 10.5), but other than that we had a fantastic time. The first night, we hung out around the hotel and ate pizza. On Saturday, since it was raining, we took the kids to Amazing Jakes, an indoor play place and let them run themselves ragged. Sunday, we went to the zoo and then the pool, before our farewell dinner at Bennihana.

The whole weekend was perfect, and Sunday night, we were all sad to go. Of course, this lead to the discussion of “What were we thinking??” making the trip so short. With two days basically reserved for travel, we only had two full days to spend time together. We decided to rectify the situation as soon as possible. Next summer, we’re planning on taking a trip to the Northeast, going to Kat’s neck of the woods. In November, everyone will come down to Texas, and we’ll all take a trip up to San Antonio to walk the River Walk and take the kids to Sea World [tickets have already been booked!!]. And in a wonderful showing of generosity and friendship (a gesture that makes me tear up every time I think about it), Brittney – who is just as pregnant as I – is throwing me a baby shower in August, and she and Kat will be staying with me for the weekend.

Of course, no matter how many vacations we plan, it seems like it’s never enough. Whenever one of us is having a hard day, the general feeling is usually, “I wish you guys were here.” However, even though we’re not physically near each other, we are always there for each other.

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By now you have all heard the news about little Storm, the Canadian boy or girl whose parents have decided not to reveal his/her gender after the baby was born. The parents explain their decision as an idea in support of "a tribute to freedom and choice in place of limitation, a stand up to what the world could become in Storm's lifetime (a more progressive place? ...)". While that is certainly a lofty and notable goal (for many of us, anyway), I think they have gone about it in the wrong way.

To me, choosing to hide their baby's gender from the outside world is putting a huge value on that quality, thus essentially making the argument that gender is the most important thing about a person. This is exactly the opposite sentiment of what the parents were trying to promote.

Those of you who actually read this blog regularly (I know for a fact there are at least three of you ) know that I am Team Noneya -- completely against revealing my fetus's gender to the outside world (and, in the current case, even to myself). I hate the all-blue/all-pink traps people fall into, and the last thing I wanted was a monochromatic baby shower with sometimes impractical and practically identical gifts. However, I have no problem telling people after my child is born that s/he is a boy or a girl. The fact is, prior to birth, there is no personality to which to ascribe my unborn child. There are also no physical traits to dictate which colors or patterns would look best on it. After my child is born, however, it's easy to tell which colors look better with its skin tone, hair color, eyes, etc. And after my child gets older (usually around age one is when the preferences begin to be expressed), I can buy things for my child that s/he actually likes. Not to mention, the gifts are less frequent at that point, and it is a lot easier to reject one impractical or ugly frilly dress or football jersey than it is twenty. It is also easier to just begrudgingly accept that one gift and stick it in the back of a closet until it makes it into the Goodwill pile than it would a dozen. [Yes, people, I don't keep every unsolicited gift you give me just because you like it]

Pop Culture Toddler has clear preferences about things. She has had these preferences since she was only a few months old. Given a choice of eight differently colored but otherwise identical toys, she always went for red, purple, or pink. The only way to get a guaranteed smile out of her at six months old was to give her a feather boa and let her go crazy. Now that she's older, she demands to wear bows and tutus. She talks about being a princess or a ballerina. She loves carrying baby dolls around the house and playing Mommy. She is a dainty little flower who cries at the drop of a hat (and goes into histrionics just as easily -- drama queen). When we let her choose three colors for her new "big girl" room, the colors she picked were yellow, purple, and pink. She is, without a doubt, a girlie girl. In spite of this, however, the girl loves dinosaurs and cars (and Cars).

I was the opposite as a child. Given the choice, I wanted Matchbox cars over Barbie. I would cry any time someone put me in a dress. All I wanted to do was climb trees, run, play basketball or football, and wrestle. I thought He-Man and Transformers were the Second Coming of cartoons. I was most definitely a tomboy. My mother and aunts always tried to curb my preferences, because girls "shouldn't play" the way I wanted to play. I had more Barbie dolls than I could count -- with the pink Ferrari, Dream House and pool to match. I would cut that bitch's hair off and pull off her arms. It was not my thing. And there was nothing my mom's family could do to change that. I never denied that I was a girl; I just didn't want to play with toys or wear clothes that I was told were what girls are "supposed to like." My preferences for playthings had nothing to do with my sex or my sexuality.

My friend has a son who likes nail polish and girls' clothes. He's not quite at "princess boy" level, but he definitely likes some things that would make lesser parents squeamish. My friend lets her son be who he is. Maybe the slight cross-dressing is a stage, and maybe it isn't. But she has decided that her son will be himself -- at least at home. He does not deny he's a boy. Never has, and I doubt he ever will. In fact, some day, he will probably make a very good and sensitive husband for some lucky young lady [not that there would be anything wrong with him being a good husband to a lucky young man].

The thing is, my friend didn't have to deny her son's gender in order to let him be himself, just like my aunts and mother did not need to force specific toys and clothes on me to reinforce the fact that I am a girl [hear that, Pop Culture Nonna???]. We are who we are; it's just a biological fact. But if we start acting like denying biology is a way to gender equality, that's just wrong. By saying that the only way you can allow someone to be him- or herself is to deny a basic biological fact is placing a higher importance on that biological fact than I think is necessary.

Put another way: I am black. I am obviously black, there's no doubt about it [even those who mistake me for Dominican or Puerto Rican would acknowledge that I clearly have a large presence of African genes]. Had my parents somehow wrapped me in a shroud and "hid" my racial identity, it wouldn't change the person I am. However, it would send out a clear message that somehow my parents thought that my racial identity was the most important thing about me. It's not. Sure, there are some bigots out there who treat me differently because of my race (and I'll acknowledge, some because of my gender), but these people should not dictate who I am and what type of life I decide to lead. Ignorant people will always be ignorant; but should we live to cater to them or hide from them? Of course not.

Now, on the subject of ignorance... I will admit that I have seen some pretty ignorant comments relating to the Storm controversy. Most of these ignorant comments were to the tune of "parents should force girls to act a certain way and boys to act a certain way" and "let the child choose his sexual orientation later." I am certain these ignorant commenters were the kinds of people the parents had in mind when they made the decision to hide Storm's gender. However, no matter how many comments I see on the Internet, I refuse to believe that the majority of people with whom these parents associate on a daily basis think this way. I know I certainly don't associate with these people unless forced to, and I'm willing to bet it's a lot easier to meet people of this mindset in Texas than it is Toronto (yes, I'm stereotyping).

Now for someone who actually reads my blog who thinks that way [though I can't imagine, with my opinions on these kind of topics, who would have possibly stuck around this long who feels that way], let me tell you why this thinking is ignorant:

(1) There is no one way to "be" a boy or a girl. By imposing one societal view of gender on your children, you are not necessarily raising them to be better children. In fact, there is a good argument that by suppressing their natural preferences to things [as my mother and aunts tried to do with me], you are actually doing more harm than good. Where would the world be if girls were taught that the only way to be a girl was to wear pink, love to cook, and raise babies? And where would boys be if they were told the only way to be a boy was to be extra-tough, wear blue, and love sports? Not somewhere I'd want to live, for sure.

(2) Lack of identification with/preference for stereotypically assigned gender qualities is not an indication of sexual preference or even gender identity. There are plenty of "red-blooded," heterosexual men who like the color pink [in fact, did you know that not even a century ago pink was the color "assigned" to boy and blue to girls?], just like there are plenty of feminine, heterosexual women who love football and wouldn't be caught dead in a dress.

(3) Sexual orientation is not anything one "chooses." Yes, you can choose whether or not to act on sexual preferences -- history is replete with examples of gay men and women who have lived in a closet to avoid social persecution -- but whether or not someone acts on their natural sexual urges is not an indication of their sexual orientation, any more than your sexual orientation was in limbo when you were a virgin. Regardless of what those idiotic "Ex-Gay" people promote, you cannot change your sexual orientation, any more than I could make myself Asian. And for those of you who for some silly reason still don't get it, ponder this: What exactly would it take to "turn" you gay? Nothing? Then why in the world would you think someone else could be "turned"? And further more, why do you care? Trust me, if your child is gay, there's nothing you said or did that made them gay (other than providing their genetic code). And once people get over their ignorant assumptions about sexuality, then maybe we can get to a place where people can stop preaching hate, bigotry and intolerance against others simply because of the simple biological difference of their sexual orientation. However, since we have not even gotten close to getting that way with race or gender, I won't hold my breath.

In any event, I am actually a little bit in awe of how this became a major news story. Yes, it's pretty odd and different; but really, is it any stranger than many of the other parenting decisions people make on a daily basis? And by focusing so much attention on this and the speculation of whether Storm is really a boy or a girl [personally, I don't know them and even if I did, I don't really care one way or the other], aren't we somehow sending a message (one I think is a wrong one) that gender is grossly important?

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I know, I know. You’ve read the title, and you’re already ready to rip me a new one. But hear me out.
I know your child is loved. I know your child is special. But what I also know, is that this love and feeling of specialness does not extend beyond your inner circle. The same is true of my child.

I attended a seminar this week about generation differences. The speaker pointed out that Generation Y (ages 13 – 30 generally) is more of the “entitled” generation, because their parents spent their lives telling them that they were special “and they believed it.” Parents have taken away the work experiences – there are no paper routes, no lemonade stands, no one mowing the lawns, these kids were too busy with extra curricular activities to babysit. So these children, now some adults, don’t even learn to grow up until they show up on the job, and they need their bosses to teach them what in the past parents did. The speaker told the Baby Boomers to blame themselves for this; so the next time they’re complaining about the know-nothing “kid” straight out of law school, they need to remember that they created these monsters. I completely agree.
I don’t know what the mark of Generation Z will be, but I have a pretty good idea. As “special” as the Baby Boomers told Generation Y they were, many of us Generation Xers are guilty of being even more over the top. Maybe it’s a cultural thing, but I want to break the mold. Yes, I want my child to understand that she is special—to me, to Pop Culture Dad, to her grandparents, aunts and uncles, and to my friends. But is she special to the rest of the world? No. Should she be special to the rest of the world? Not automatically. Specialness is something that’s earned not given. You don’t earn the title of being “special” simply for doing the things you should do (“Oh! You showed up on time and did your work? How wonderful!!” Uh… no); you are special for being extraordinary. And if you aren’t making the effort or going that extra mile to stand out from the rest of the world, then you need to drop the expectation that the rest of the world will find you as special and wonderful and your family and close friends. And we, as parents, need to stop giving our children these unrealistic expectations and then thrusting these self-entitled brats with me-me-me attitudes on the rest of the world.

I have witnessed far too many kids and adults who walk around with an air of entitlement, because they have been told all their life that they are special and wonderful, and this statement was never qualified. Somehow, these “special” adults have gone throughout life without having the idea challenged – at least, they haven’t recognized that the idea was challenged. These are the people who think that if they don’t get something they want, either it was stolen from them or some sort of unfairness is at play. I don’t dispute that things can be “stolen” or that there is unfairness in the world (a lot of unfairness), but there are many people who think that every time something doesn’t go their way, there must have been foul play. Sorry to break it to you, but the culprit isn’t the world, it’s your ego. Somewhere along the way, someone should have told you (him, her, whoever), that you are not that special – to anyone except your family and your/their friends.

It starts with children. We tell our children from the very beginning that they can do no wrong. Everything they do is perfect and wonderful. There is no problem with this. The problem comes in when we don’t let our children know that while we may hold this opinion, as do Nana and Papa, Auntie Whoever, and Mommy’s best friend, that random person you meet along the way – that person who may at some point hold your academic or professional fate in their hands – does not feel that way. I have heard various stories where someone’s child doesn’t get an award or doesn’t get into their first-choice school, and this person’s immediate assumption – without any hard core proof is “Well, the person who got my child’s spot got it because s/he is a minority/woman/bribed someone.” This parent is part of the problem. Sorry, but the world doesn’t work to conspire against one person. Sometimes – and I know this is a tough pill to swallow – we don’t get things in life, because we just aren’t good enough or special enough.

“But, but, but. My child had a 3.9 and scored a 1580 on the SATs and took piano!”. So did thousands of other children. And, quite honestly, place yourself in the shoes of a college application review board. If you see 15,000 applications from absolutely identical applicants, and you only have 1,000 spots, are any of these children special to you, regardless of how special they are to their parents, grandparents, cousins, etc.? Of course not. But you know who may seem more special than your child? The kid with the 3.6 and 1400 on the SATs, who played a sport and volunteered in her community, who also didn’t have the funds to take the same Princeton Review that 13,000 of the 15,000 identical applicants took. Yes, you may think your child looks better on paper, but you’d likely be wrong. In any event, the specialness that you personally attribute to your offspring is not passed on to a college application review board, a boss, or anyone else in the world. Again, if one wants to be special to others, one must in fact be special.

I know there are some parents who disagree. There are parents who think that I am damaging my child’s psyche by not letting her make every single decision or sharing in the fantasy (nay, fallacy) that she is special to everyone in the world because she is to me. I don’t care. I want my children to be those kids who have learned a work ethic, who have learned how to earn respect rather than just expecting it. I want them to grow up learning over the years how to be responsible adults rather than learning it on the job at age 25. If people don’t agree, then fine. Raise your kids however you want. But for me, I don’t plan on being that parent 25 years from now lamenting over the fact that my child is bouncing from job to job because her “boss doesn’t get her” or “she doesn’t feel fulfilled” after only being there one month.

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Today I was in the cafe at Target getting nachos and an Icee [I'm 21 weeks pregnant. Don't judge!] when a little girl around the age of 5 or 6 got in line behind me. She got a little impatient while the cashier was making my nachos, so she started standing and sort of bouncing on the flimsy chips display case in front of us.

I am always careful with what I say to strangers' kids, because the last thing I want is to give some random nutjob a reason to go off on me. This time, I decided to let it go with a simple "Ooh, sweetie. Don't stand on that. You don't want it to fall under you." She got down, and no one confronted me. Two crises averted.

While I was grabbing napkins, the little girl ran past me and went running through the aisles of Target. That was the first time it occurred to me - Where is her mother?. My internal question was soon answered when the little girl darted into the Starbucks inside the store. However, this revelation did nothing to soothe me.

There are no parts of the cafe visible from the Starbucks and vice versa. In the same amount of time it took me to warn the little girl about standing on the chips display case, she could have been snatched. If I hadn't said anything, there was a possibility this little girl could have fallen and gotten injured. The little girl could have even decided that, instead of buying chips, she wanted to exit the store completely and cross the parking lot (The exit is also not visible from the internal Starbucks). All of these things - bad things - could and have happened, all without the mom knowing until it is too late.

Maybe I'm just paranoid. I have read too many stories about children being abducted from toy aisles while their parents shopped elsewhere in the same store. I've heard too many stories of children being snatched or running away into peril when their parents looked away for just a minute. I have watched too many episodes of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. Thirty years ago, one of my cousin's 15-year old best friend was abducted, raped and murdered on her way walking to meet her little sister and me at our pre-K and walk us home [in another dangerous situation, after waiting an hour without someone meeting us, the sister and I - both four at the time - walked home two miles by ourselves]. So, yes, I may be a little over-paranoid about letting my five year old stroll the aisles of a large store by herself. And I'm okay with that.

I'm not saying parents should watch their children with the almost obsessive-compulsive hawkishness that I can exhibit from time to time. But I do think that parents should keep their guards up even when in their own neighborhood. I'm sure the mom thought her child would be fine going to get chips on her own, because she was in a store in our neighborhood, and our neighborhood is safe. And, yes, this little girl was fine, so it was not an unreasonable assumption to make. However, our neighborhood is not a utopia. Many kids are abducted from or severely - even fatally - injured in their own front yards. I think kids should be able to play and have fun. However, I know that for myself, I don't ever want to be in a position where if, goodness forbid, something happens to my child, I am forever plagued with the thought of "If only I had kept an eye on her."

So, for me, I'm going to continue to let my child be a child — but within my eyesight and earshot. How about the rest of you? Am I being paranoid, or has the state of the world the last few years caused you to be overly cautious also?

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Back in the late-80s through early-90s, I was a scrawny little, nerdy thing with braces and glasses. I had always been this way, but there was something about middle school and high school that made other children notice my puny geekiness even more. I was teased, called names, and even had a girl or two threaten to fight me for daring to say that someone who verbally harassed me was a "bitch." Sure, I was bullied, though not to the extent that kids today are. And I am also ashamed to admit that I am pretty sure (thought I can't remember), there was probably a kid or two who I gave as good as I was getting [though I doubt I ever threatened to fight anyone -- when you weigh 70 or 80 pounds, it's just not a smart thing to do...]. At some point by the end of high school, no one really seemed to care that I was 90 pounds at 5'7" [with the exception of (1) this overweight girl who used to call me Olive Oyl every day; and (2) my friends who would get visibly upset watching me scarf down enough lunch for two people without putting on a single pound, while it was all they could do to keep their weight in check], a complete drama geek, and vice president of our chapter of the National Honor Society. Nor did anyone care that I didn't have a cool bone in my body. By college and law school, I was actually (gasp!) one of the popular gals. With all those traumatic years of middle school and the beginning of high school far, far behind me, I thought I had long left the days of bullies. Boy was I ever wrong.

I was reintroduced to the world of bullies shortly after becoming pregnant with Pop Culture Toddler. I joined a parenting message board. Although my time on that site was generally wonderful, and I have made some great and hopefully lifelong friends out of the process, I also witnessed behavior that I thought was left behind junior year of high school. I was pregnant with Pop Culture Toddler during an election year. Now, politics and pregnancy hormones generally don't mix as it is; however, some of these ladies took things to the extreme. I witnessed a now-friend of mine (a lovely lady who I have hung out with in person a number of times, who I know to be a loyal and generous friend) called "terrorist," simply because she is Muslim. There were a few girls on one of my expecting boards who prided themselves on being the Bad Mommy club, who would pick fights with other moms just to entertain themselves. When the admins cracked down on the drama on our board, they started picking fights with other expecting months and even a competing website. I also witnessed one crazy mother on my other expecting board who, in addition to bragging about throwing a television set at her husband, constantly harassed other mothers, called one mother the "N" word in her "happy birthday" message, and made comments about vile things (which I will not repeat) that she did while looking at pictures of our children. I have also seen people come to board designated for blended, bi-racial/multi-ethnic, and (unofficial) LGBT families and make either racist, bigoted, separatist or homophobic comments, just to get their jollies. I have seen all of this by people who are allegedly there to have support during their (or their partners') pregnancies and life as parents. Yes, these crazy people (assuming the majority of them weren't true trolls) are raising children. Sad.

This wasn't the end of it. As a Featured Blogger on that same website, I would often get comments from people who apparently had nothing better to do with their time than pick on the bloggers. Although I have always been that mother who maintains that things I do and advocate are what's right for my family and my family alone, I would get several comments either accusing me of thinking I'm "always right" or just outright attacking me for things I did -- very personal parenting choices. Whether it was my decision to practice attachment parenting, following my pediatrician's advice for calcium substitutes for my milk-allergen carrying kid, my husband's and my decision to pierce our infant daughter's ears, or my choice to breast feed in public, there was always some parent (not always women, mind you) who had something snarky and hateful to say.

I saw my other mommy friends attacked, too. One of my friends was attacked for daring to enjoy a vacation with her husband while her in-laws watched her children. Recently, I have watched with horror as one of my dearest friends gets attacked on a constant basis. In some cases, we know or at least suspect who some of these cyberbullies are. In others, it's the same sort of cyberbully who attacked me -- idiots who think that the anonymity provided by the Internet gives them free license to be hateful. I have even recently heard the case of one mother who was basically attacked as an "accomplice" in her child's accidental death, while his pictures were stolen off her blog and co-opted as a poster child for their cause by the same group attacking her. It's all immature, deplorable behavior.

Now there's nothing wrong with expressing an opposing view, but there is something wrong with being hateful and ugly in expressing that view. Not to mention, it gets you nowhere.

This is why I was so glad to hear about the Mommy Blogger Pledge. It's time for bloggers to take control and bring civility back to discourse. Sure, we cannot control the actions of others, but we can take control of how we react to it. I can't stop someone from calling me names or harshly criticizing my actions, but I can choose not to engage in similar behavior and to delete the offending comments before a comment thread gets out of hand. I will not feed the trolls.

If we want to teach our children that bullying is wrong, it's important that we set a good example. If you have a blog, I invite you to take The Pledge, and if you don't, I implore you to consider The Pledge when leaving comments on others' blogs.

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On last night's absolutely hilarious episode of 'Modern Family' ("Someone to Watch Over Lily"), Cameron and Mitchell spied on Mitchell's family members in order to determine who would get their daughter, Lily, in the event they were both deceased ("God forbid!"). First, Mitchell and Cam went over the Mitchell's sister's Claire house. After Claire's husband, Phil, set the kitchen on fire, her daughter Haley called her "the worst mom in the world," and her daughter Alex barges in the kitchen wondering why no one heard her screaming while she was locked in the garage for the past 20 minutes, it was pretty clear that the Dunphys were out of the running as Lily's potential guardians. Mitchell was set on his father and young step-mother Gloria, but Cameron had his reservations about Papa Jay. Eventually, the pair settled on Jay and Gloria, leading Gloria to shout with glee that Lily was finally hers and taking Lily upstairs to see her "new room."

In addition to making my husband and I laugh until our sides hurt and we had tears coming out of our eyes, it got us thinking: we have not yet written our wills or issued directives on what would happen to our children in the event something happened to us. Sure, we've discussed it plenty of times, but we've never come to a final conclusion. We have someone in mind who would be the perfect guardian, but we've never finalized that decision with each other, let alone talked to the family to see how they feel about the situation.

Considering I'm a lawyer and have done pro bono work putting together wills and powers of attorney for others, it's really sloppy of me to not have drafted wills for my Pop Culture Dad and myself. Honestly, I started the drafts nearly three years ago, when I was pregnant with Pop Culture Toddler. However, here I am pregnant with Pop Culture Kid #2, and we have yet to put anything final on paper. Shame, shame!

This weekend is a long holiday weekend, and as they say, "There's no time like the present." In between cleaning out the guest room to transform it into a princess paradise for Pop Culture Toddler and otherwise just getting our house in order, Pop Culture Dad and I need to spend the weekend getting our affairs in order. I plan on making sure we carve out some time to do our wills (which, honestly, shouldn't take very long) and then, once we declare with certainty that we do in fact want the guardians we originally discussed, give them a call to see how they feel about the subject. There's really no reason we shouldn't have done this sooner, and there is no good reason to delay it any further.

So how about the rest of you -- are your affairs in order? If not, what's holding you back? Is it a sense of laziness/disorganization, like what happened with us? Or is it more of an issue of really not knowing who you would trust with your children? Or is it something else entirely?

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Beauty and the Beast is not just one of my favorite Disney movies, it's easily one of my favorite movies, period. When it was first released, I actually saw it in the theaters with my friends — in high school (don't judge). I've owed the VHS version and probably every DVD version ever released, all long before I had a child. After Pop Culture Toddler was born, and once we finally broke down and purchased a Blu-Ray player, I purchased the platinum edition of the movie. Like most of my favorite movies, I can recite many lines by heart. I know all of the songs, even the new one, which was never part of the theatrical release. So, given my love of Beauty and the Beast, why is that with each year I just get more and more cynical/questioning about parts of the movie?

Let's start with the whole reason the prince turned into the Beast. A beggar woman showed up at his door unannounced and asked for shelter for the night, and he said no. Uh... She's lucky he even opened the door. If some stranger shows up at our house in the middle of the night, I'm pretending we're not home. The last thing I'm doing is offering them a bed. This would apply even after she revealed herself to be a hottie sorceress. Maybe if she was offering Girl Scout cookies, I'd at least open the door; but she still would not get an invite in. The Beast is perfectly blameless in this one.

And how about that curse? The Beast has to find true love by age 21. Twenty-one?? Very few people I know had found true love that young. And what about Mrs. Pott's claim that they have been waiting 12 years for the spell to be broken. Are we talking dog years or something? If not, then this sorceress basically punished a nine-year old child for not letting her have a sleepover. That is seriously problematic.

Speaking of Mrs. Potts... (1) are all of the cups her children, or just Chip? Mrs. Potts tells Chip to get in the cupboard with his brothers and sisters, but Chip is the only one who appears to have changed back to a human when the curse is lifted. How in the world does she have a son that young when she is so very old, anyway?

And, I get that the moral of the story is acceptance, tolerance, and not judging people solely by their appearances, but the Beast is still (as far as Belle knows anyway) a different species. I don't care how nice he is, it's still bestiality. Ew.

And where does this story take place? Everyone says "bonjour," "monsieur," "madame," and "mademoiselle." There are names like Belle, Gaston, and Le Fou. However, the accents are distinctly American and only two of the characters (Lumière and his feather duster girlfriend) have French accents. The best I can figure, this all takes place in Canada.

I have many more questions and more just arise every time I watch the movie. For now, however, it's safe to assume I've lost the innocence and wondrous magic of Disney.

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So around the same time I was happily weeping at Natalie Portman's Oscar speech and her beautiful declaration that motherhood would be her most important role, some self-proclaimed feminists were lambasting her for that same statement. For shame!

First, let me say that I consider myself (among other things) a feminist. I firmly believe women can and should do virtually anything a man can. I support women's rights and women's causes. I'm a full-time career woman, and I feel no shame about that fact. That being said, I have a real problem with the turn the feminist movement seems to have taken in the last decade. At the heart of the feminist ideal is that a woman can be anything she wants to be. If a woman wants to be a CEO of a Fortune 500 company, she should have that right. If a woman wants to be a stay-at-home mom, that too is her right. Women should define for themselves what they want to be; and that role — what each woman considers important for herself — should not be defined by others. After all, what is the difference between a man dictating that a woman cannot have a certain occupation and another woman saying that a woman must have some occupation other than wife/mother or that if she has another occupation, she cannot still consider her role as mother the most important thing she has ever done in her life?

Part of the reason I found Natalie Portman's speech so beautiful is because she is such an accomplished woman. Seeing a Harvard graduate/activist/accomplished actress receiving an award considered one of the highest in her field state that motherhood would be the most important thing she has ever done absolutely moved me. I found it to be one of the most touching statements regarding motherhood I could imagine.

I graduated at the top of my class in high school, went on to graduate college summa cum laude after only three years, went to an Ivy League law school, and now I work for a large, national law firm. These accomplishments are great, indeed. But my crowning achievement spent part her day sitting at her art table, coloring and watching Dora the Explorer. My boss, too, is a very accomplished woman — certainly moreso than me — and she, too, has published biographies attached to presentations she has given to other professionals listing out every single one of these accomplishments, but stating that her greatest two accomplishments are her children. There is nothing wrong with thinking this way. We decide for ourselves what is important in our lives, and we are two women who prioritize our family, more specifically our children, above everything else.

Some of these so-called feminists who slammed Natalie Portman's speech argued that you would never see a professional man, let alone a male actor make such a proclamation. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. I count my husband as one of many professional men who will answer in a heartbeat that the most important thing he's ever done is fatherhood. Some of my coworkers — male partners at a major law firm — likewise make the claim that nothing they have ever done rises to the level of being a dad. Many of my friends' husbands [including BostonsMama, who herself has written with sadness about the ugly turn the feminist movement seems to be taken], have made similar statements. One very famous actor/producer/former-model and rapper (and my secret boyfriend) has claimed that his most important role was being a dad, and if he fails at fatherhood, he "fail[s] at everything."

Real feminists recognize that there's more value in celebrating men like Mark Wahlberg and my husband, who relish their roles as father and set good examples for their sons and daughters, than there is in ripping apart women like Natalie Portman and myself. Real feminists recognize that a woman's hierarchy of what's important in her life is personal to her and her alone.

For more feminists supporting each woman's right to be an individual, check out these amazing posts by my gal pals Enyo, Suzanne, [[more to come; come back later to check]]

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The other day, some girlfriends and I were discussing the gender reveal – do you or don’t you? Suzi and Brittney are very much in favor of finding out their babies’ genders when given the opportunity. Amanda loves the surprise and has even blogged about it twice. Kat also loves a surprise. Personally, I’m on the fence about whether I prefer being surprised myself or simply surprising everyone else. In any event, when I’m pregnant, don’t bother asking me my baby’s gender. Either I won’t have found out or I won’t be revealing. You can wait until my child is born to find out if I had a boy or a girl. But be forewarned: if you harass me too much about knowing the gender, you may not be around in my life long enough to find out.

When I was pregnant with Pop Culture Toddler, my pregnancy expecting board had three different color groups of expecting parents: Team Pink, Team Blue, and Team Green. Team Pink consisted of those parents who were having a girl, Team Blue a boy, and Team Green those who wanted to keep the baby’s gender a surprise. At some point, however, I added a subset to Team Green – Team Noneya.

“Noneya” is a term one of my former secretaries used whenever she scanned or created personal documents for herself or for me. The first time she did it, I was really confused. When I asked her “Why ‘noneya’?” she said, “So if anyone looks at it, they’ll know it’s ‘noneya’ damn business.” I liked it so much I stole it.

The Team Noneya subset of Team Green included us parents who broke down and found out our babies’ genders but chose not to share them with anyone. Everyone had slightly different reasons for keeping the gender a secret, but at the root of it all was our shared belief (a belief shared by the parents who didn’t find out their babies’ genders) that people who were not involved in the process of contributing fifty percent of the baby’s genetic material should not really care what we were having, and if they did care, well, that was their problem, not ours.

Well, we were wrong. People care, and they care passionately. In fact, some people cared so passionately during my pregnancy, that they made me downright angry and just a wee bit stabby. Want to make a pregnant woman cry and see just how long a Cancer can hold a grudge? Tell her you wouldn’t bother to decorate her baby shower because she wouldn’t share her baby’s gender. Want to see just how far an envelope opener can be thrust into someone’s heart (at least in my mind)? Then try your chances in the office by harassing a pregnant and hormonal me every single day about her baby’s gender and interpreting every single box that is delivered as a “sign.”

I didn’t get it then, and I don’t get it now. Why does it bother someone so much that the parents either choose not to find out their baby’s gender or to not reveal it until the baby is born? Why? Why?? WHY??? Because, you know what? It’s noneya damn business. It’s not. And people’s stinky attitudes toward me when I was pregnant and keeping my Pop Culture Fetus’s gender identity a surprise (a surprise I thought would be nice, mind you) have increased my resolve to never reveal my child’s gender no matter how many children I have. I refuse to play people’s stupid little games – particularly when it truly does not, or at least should not, concern them.

I had a couple of reasons for not wanting to share the gender of Pop Culture Toddler. The first reason is that Pop Culture Dad and I had originally planned to not find out at all, and we wanted to half-honor that spirit. Before my 20-week ultrasound, we had already picked out both a boy and a girl name and painted the nursery. Three of the nursery walls were blue and yellow. The fourth wall was painted like a quilt wall – blue, yellow, green and pink. It’s the fourth color that gave people pause. Even though I hadn’t found out my child’s gender yet, I have heard several times (and still hear to this day) that we “let” pink be the fourth color because I knew I was having a girl. I didn’t. And I don’t care. I’m perfectly fine with my son having 5% of his bedroom pink. And there really wasn’t anything revealing in the choice of paint color – it simply matched the Care Bear border I had bought in my 9th week of pregnancy when I decided to design a nursery around a Grumpy Bear I had purchased on eBay five years prior. But I digress…

Pop Culture Dad and I decided on the morning of the ultrasound – on the way to the ultrasound – that we would find out the baby’s gender, but we decided to keep it a surprise. Pop Culture Dad decided he would make his life easier by simply telling people that we didn’t find out. I (as always) was feeling a little more brazen, so I decided I would have no problem telling people that we just weren’t going to reveal the gender.

Another reason for not revealing the gender was purely personal to me. I have a very large family, so I have been to a lot of baby showers. One thing that always irked me was the color conformity of the gifts. If it was a shower for a boy, everything was blue; if for a girl, then everything was pink. It was almost as if each guest went to Target and thought, “Oh! I’m sure no one else thought to get blue onesies! I must make sure I get a dozen!”. These all-blue and all-pink baby showers bothered me; but they weren’t my showers, so I put it out of my mind. I always tried to do my part, however, by mixing up my gifts a little. I always stick to the registry, because I refuse to presume that my preference overrides someone else’s well-thought out plans and specific requests (I’m considerate that way). But if there’s no registry, I try to get a mix of things. Yes, I will buy your little boy blue, but I will also buy green, orange, brown, whatever.

Even though I was [until I had a daughter and was forced to go shopping for her] a huge fan of pink, I hated pink until I was 21. I blame Hello Kitty for the transformation. Back then, it was hard to find anything Hello Kitty that wasn’t pink. Slowly the two concepts melded in my mind, and… well… ask my husband how he feels about the pink rice cooker, toaster maker, sandwich press, griddle and gameroom…. However, I never intended for my pink fanaticism and Hello Kitty obsession to dictate everything I bought for my child, even if it was a girl. I knew that if I had a girl, I would find myself stuck with everything pink and frilly [for the record, I still do and always will hate frilly]; just like I knew if I had a boy, I would find myself stuck with everything blue and baseball-related. How did I “know” this? Because the same people who bugged me constantly about my baby’s gender said the reason they “had” to know was so they knew whether to buy pink or blue and Hello Kitty or football – exactly the result I wanted to avoid. So, yes, boy or girl, no one was going to know my child's gender ahead of time.

[Oh, and for what it’s worth, Pop Culture Toddler does not look good in pink unless it’s a very dark, fuchsia-type color (not the kind you get at baby showers). You know what else doesn’t go with pink? Eczema -- of which PCT has plenty! PCT does, however, look fabulous in green, purple, and black – not that anyone forcing their pink preferences down my throat would have been thoughtful enough to consider that.]

At the root of all this is the fact that people are selfish and sometimes downright rude and pushy. If I could trust people to know my baby’s gender and then respect my wishes by not buying pink or blue, then maybe I wouldn’t mind revealing the gender so much (assuming I find out). But the fact is people don’t. Even knowing how I feel very strongly about this, I had people shoving their preferences down my throat when I was pregnant with PCT [didn’t they ever learn not to cross a hormonal pregnant woman???]. I feel the same way about this I do about our choices of names – if you didn’t put this baby in me and you’re not carrying it, you don’t get a vote, and I could care less about your preferences.

The thing is, if people feel so strongly that newborn girls should be swaddled in all pink and newborn boys in all blue, the solution is simple: have your own baby. If you already have your own baby, then you’ve already had the chance to put your opinion to work. But for those of us who decide to keep our babies’ genders a surprise – whether a surprise from us or only a surprise to everyone else – don’t rain on our parades. We’ve made our decision, and this like most other parenting decisions, is very subjective and not up to a community vote. Deal with it. Because, really, it’s noneya damn business.

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